


The Last True Mouthpiece

by hemmotoxicity



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: M/M, it's also purposefully vague so feel free to comment what you got out of this, oh and let me know which boy's POV you think this was written on :-), this is savagery and that's all i have to say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-09 03:31:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7785061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hemmotoxicity/pseuds/hemmotoxicity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was perfect in their eyes. An angel. Pure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last True Mouthpiece

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Take me to Church" by Hozier.

There are bruises around his throat.

 

He's perfectly aware of them, of course he is — not that the stifling heat would enable him to forget. Sunlight filtered in through stained glass windows, beating down on him as he sits on one of the pews, sweat beginning to form at his brow as he stewed inside his blue turtleneck.

 

It's not the most practical getup, taking into account how it's a particularly sweltering afternoon in July (the hottest month of the year in Allentown), but his choice in clothing was bound to draw fewer eyes than what lies beneath the cashmere.

 

He reaches the end of his prayers, drawn-out apologies wrapped up in guilt and shame he knew he should feel but didn't, memories doused in secrecy and subterfuge and litanies whispered against sweat-slicked skin. His knees begin to smart, though he hasn't been kneeling for very long, a phantom ache from nights past — as well mornings and afternoons that he'd stopped keeping track of.

 

Now his gaze falls onto his own wrists, tracing lines that were once there but have long since faded, the memory so vivid that he could almost conjure up the feeling of cold, unyielding metal. He sees this all, ponders it, relives it — imprints that have come and gone, imprints that should put fear of the lord in his heart where this is only an utter lack of regret.

 

He stands, draws the attention of a boy sitting a few rows down, and he walks with him — all smirks and speech bursting with innuendo.

 

He's not really expecting anything from hun. none of them ever do — not when he makes it a point to attend mass every sunday, not when he radiates innocence even as his friends try their damnedest to corrupt him, not when his brother levels them with his steely gaze and tells them to scram.

 

He was perfect in their eyes. An angel. Pure.

 

No one knows about the bruises.

 

No one knows the preacher's hands match them perfectly.


End file.
